


Secrets

by bittenfeld



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV), Sleepy Hollow (TV) - Alternate Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Brutality, Dark, Demon Sex, Explicit Sex, Friends to Lovers, Hate Sex, M/M, Male Friendship, Male Slash, Western, demon, enemy-sex, friend-sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-01
Updated: 2015-01-20
Packaged: 2018-01-14 03:20:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1250845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bittenfeld/pseuds/bittenfeld
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A different modern-day take on Ichabod and the Horseman – and a Western to boot!  Ichabod, a descendant of the original, runs a ranch in California, next to his neighbor, Abram Von Brunt, a tall hunky blond cowboy, who has definite designs to get Ichabod in bed - and the Horseman will ride again!</p><p>Final – Chapter 9:  (the rest of this story is just raw scraps, scenes and dialogue which I’ll develop later)<br/>“I sure like taking you to bed.” Abram muses.<br/>Ichabod glowers.  “You hate me.”<br/>“Sure.  As much as you hate me.  And I’d kill you if I could, just like you’d kill me.  But we can’t.  That doesn’t change the fact that I do like you in bed.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Gad, but you’re a pretty thing,” Brom Bones remarked one more time, patting his neighbor on the thigh in a more-than-neighborly gesture.

Without offense, Ichabod Crane eyed his friend. “And just how many times have you said that, Abram?”

The big blond raw-boned cowboy, who came by his nickname honestly, grinned. “I dunno – you’re the math teacher, _you_ keep count. All I know is, if you weren’t so stand-offish and playing hard-to-get, I’d’ve had you saddled and tamed faster than that new little filly of mine.”

With a finger pushing his wire-rimmed glasses up on his nose, Ichabod tossed back, “Now I’m your filly?” A tilt of his jaw indicated an old Jersey cow calmly chewing her cud on the other side of the split-rail fence. “Lord, next you’ll be comparing me to old Bossy over there.”

“Jessie,” Abram von Brunt corrected, not taking his eyes off his friend, but unabashedly letting his gaze roam over the tall lanky physique that barely filled out shirt and trousers.

“And I’m not stand-offish or playing hard-to-get,” Ichabod asserted. “Just… busy. This isn’t a good time.  I have finals to grade for my four calculus classes as well as my two mechanical physics classes.  And you know with Dad under the weather, I’ve also got to take over the responsibilities of the ranch.  And…”

“Yeah I know.  And 'The Cause'.” Brom snorted lightly. “You and your family’s mumbo-jumbo.”

“It’s not mumbo-jumbo. Our family has a duty to guard against the forces of evil. One member of each generation must take the responsibility, and after Dad, it’ll fall to me.  So he's training me now.”

Hitching a hip up on the fence which divided their properties, Brom let his attention sweep over the Crane ranch-lands which stretched up into the Sierra Nevada range on the western horizon. A dozen steers marked with the S-Bar-H brand grazed under the warm June afternoon sun. “Yeah. Good ol’ great-great-great-great-whatever-uncle and the ‘Legend of the Headless Horseman’. Your dad even had to name you after your ancestor, and call your ranch ‘Sleepy Hollow’.”

Ichabod’s gaze followed his friend’s. Over the sawtooth peaks of the Sierras, summer thunderheads sat plump and lazy. By five, they’d roll in for a couple of gully-washer downpours, then blow off like they’d never been, making way for a crystal-clear night. A foreshadowing breeze wisped a few strands of long brown hair pulled loose from the ponytail bound at his neck. “The Horseman doesn’t appear every generation,” he remarked. “It seems to take time for him to regenerate, or reincarnate, after he’s been destroyed. My great-great-grandmother faced him during the Civil War. And I told you how my uncle, who inherited the responsibility when he was just a teenager back in the 40’s, lost his life to the demon.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry,” Brom sympathized. “But you ever consider it might not be a real ‘demon from Hell’, but just some certifiable crack-pot every now and then who’s heard the story and just likes to take Halloween a little too seriously?”

“No,” Ichabod asserted. “He’s very real. And we Cranes take our responsibility very seriously.”

“Speaking of serious –” Hopping down from the fence rail behind Ichabod, the other man rested well-muscled forearms on slender shoulders. “You coming to the rodeo next Saturday?”

“Of course. Are you planning on taking the championship away from Bert Powell?”

Brom snuffed a disdainful scoff. “Old Man Powell and that fat gelding of his? He never would’ve taken the championship away from _me_ last year, if I hadn't been laid up with my leg busted in three places.”

Glancing a casual look back at his friend, Ichabod reminded, “Speaking of demons – you wouldn’t have had your leg broken if you hadn't been trying to tame that demon horse of yours.”

Brom just shrugged. “Yeah, well, that demon horse and I have reached a _very_ close mutual understanding. And I guarantee, come Saturday, _no one_ is gonna be able to come even close to me and Daredevil. Say, why don’t you and Gunpowder ever enter?”

“Why, so you can leave us in the dust, and everyone can laugh at us? No thanks,” Ichabod tossed back lightly. “No, Gunpowder’s a great little cow-pony, but ‘fast’ has never been on his gear shift.”

“Are you kidding? I've seen him outmaneuver some pretty ornery steers.  What about tie-down roping? You can sure toss a rope with the best of them – meaning me, of course.”

But Ichabod just shook his head. “No, I’ll be content just to sit in the stands and root for you.”

Brom grinned. “Then you’ll have your own competition – when Miss Van Tassel sees you by yourself, she’ll do everything she can to rope and hogtie _you.”_

Ichabod eyed his friend. “I think it’s you Katrina really has her cap set for, Abram.”

“Actually I think it’s either one of us,” the blond surmised. “Old Pappy Van Tassel has his eye set on expanding his holdings with one of our spreads – and I expect that he and the missy don’t really care which one.”

Ichabod grinned. “Well, then, while you’re out there sweating with the bulls and the broncs, I think I’ll take my chances with the lady’s amorous advances.”

Lips barely brushed his ear, warm breath against his cheek. “Well, just as long as she doesn’t get anything before I do.”

“That’s a promise,” Ichabod agreed.

  
* * * * *  
 _to be continued_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As his father lies dying of cancer, Ichabod spends an afternoon chatting with the older rancher, knowing it’s one of the last chances they’ll have together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Imagine Sam Elliott for the elder Crane.

Tentatively Ichabod poked his head into his father’s room. “Dad? You awake?” he checked hesitantly. For the last few days, he had dreaded what he would find each time he looked in on the older man.

But today at least was not that time. The vitals-monitor still showed a pulse, still showed a blood pressure – weak, but still there. Death hadn't claimed Irving Crane yet. The skeletal figure on the bed gradually opened his eyes, and a dry voice cracked a word: “Boy.”

Taking the chair at the side of the bed, Ichabod clasped his father’s hand, the one without the IV needle taped in place. “Yes, Dad, I’m home. How are you feeling now?”

A long raspy breath rattled in the gaunt chest. “Like that ol’ one-horned bull in the south pasture… used me for stompin’ practice.”

It hurt Ichabod to see what the morbidity had stolen from Irving Crane. The demon cancer which had destroyed his pancreas now ravaged the rest of his body. The robust form now reduced to skin and bones; the dark eyes, once vibrant and alert, now dull and weary; the ruddy tanned face now pasty white, a foreshadowing of the corpse he would soon become. Even the large handlebar moustache, once his pride and joy, now only seemed to drag his face down with its weight.

At the head of the bed, the IV machine clicked steadily as it delivered the prescribed drug-cocktail into the patient’s veins, along with a continual slow drip of morphine.

Ichabod forced a smile. “So, did Mrs. Winters entice you to eat lunch today?”

“No… didn’t want it.” Now a little of the old spark lit the man’s eyes, and a bit of energy returned to his voice. “But she forced another of those evil concoctions of hers down my throat… hickory infusion and trillium extract… and I don’t know what all else she gathers… on her nighttime excursions into the woods.”

Ichabod grinned more easily now. “ ‘Eye of newt and toe of frog’, mm?” he suggested.

The rheumy eyes looked askance, as the older man muttered, “And probably a jigger of toadstool juice too, for all I know.”

From the kitchen, their seventy-ish live-in housekeeper-cook retorted teasingly, “I heard that!”

Crane closed his eyes again and sighed heavily. “Says it gives me some nutrition, and fights the side-effects of all these damn drugs Doc’s got me on… and I s’pose she’s right.”

Ichabod smiled warmly. “Well, then keep taking it. And Mrs. Winters,” he called to the kitchen, “don’t let him refuse it.”

“Oh, I won’t,” she assured firmly.

Then Irving’s gaze focussed directly on his son’s face, as his fingers weakly tightened on Ichabod’s, and he announced seriously: “You need to know something, boy: Now, I know you won’t like it… but I’ve made a decision. ‘m thinkin’ about tellin’ Doc Martin I’m through with this … I’ve had enough.”

At his father’s words, a sharp coil of uneasiness tensed in Ichabod’s belly, and a quiver of dread tingled though his nerves. “Dad…” he started to protest.

But Irving Crane just looked his son in the eye, and insisted firmly, “A man’s got the right to go when he knows it’s time, boy. No reason to delay the inevitable anymore… My time’s up. I know it, and God knows it.”

Moisture stung Ichabod’s eyes, and his shoulders slumped, even as adrenalin rush trembled his limbs. “I understand, Dad,” he murmured, and now his shaky voice was weaker than the bed-ridden man’s. And he did understand – the last he had consulted with Doctor Martin two days ago, the physician had admitted that, drugs or no, Irving probably only had a week or two left, if that. But that didn’t make the reality any easier to face.

Then with the important information expressed, Crane nodded, satisfied, then relaxed back on his pillows and closed his eyes.

Ichabod continued to hold his father’s hand, expecting to hear the death rattle at any time. But still the monitors registered lingering signs of life. Tenderly he rubbed a thumb over the bony knuckles as silent tears rolled down his cheeks.

Appearing in the doorway, Harriet Winters untied her pinafore apron. Her silver-white hair always permed and neatly pinned into place, she had been their housekeeper for as long as Ichabod could remember. After her husband’s death in the early days of the Gulf War, Irving had built a bungalow for her on the ranch, about a quarter-mile in on the access road, an easy walk between there and the main house.

She too glanced over at the small CRT screen to assure herself of the continuation of pulse and breathing. Then quietly she spoke to Ichabod, “Dinner’s in the oven, hon. I’m going home now. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Ichabod looked up from his contemplation. “All right, thank you, Mrs. Winters.”

She hesitated, as if uncertain she should leave, gaze resting on the stricken man. “But if you should need – anything – tonight, you call me, dear, and I’ll come right over.” – and the unspoken communication was very clear – “Anytime at all,” she emphasized. “Don’t wait until morning – if you need me.”

“I won’t,” Ichabod assured, bucking up a smile for both of them. “I’ll let you know… if anything changes.”

“Anytime,” she reiterated emphatically, before retreating down the hallway.

“All right. Goodnight, Mrs. Winters.”

He could hear her in the front of the house, putting some last few things away, then gathering her purse and going out the front door. The latch clicked shut behind her, and he returned his attention to the figure on the bed. In reluctant submission to the inevitable, his gaze tried to record every tiny detail to memory, as if something might be forgotten once the older man had passed and there would no longer be a chance.

But for now, Irving Crane roused once more, swallowed through a tight dry throat, and blinked his eyes open again. “So, tell me,” he deliberately changed the subject to a less morbid topic, as though they were once again just sharing the usual after-dinner conversation, “how’s school? Your classes all done for the semester?”

“Yes.” Pouring a cup of water from the pitcher on the nightstand, Ichabod assisted his father to take a sip. “I’ve turned in my final grades and paperwork.” Blinking the moisture away and steadying his voice, Ichabod announced, “And I’ve made a decision of my own, Dad. This will be my last semester… I’m giving up teaching so I can devote my time to the ranch. I’ve already spoken with the dean… I’ll be turning in my resignation on Monday.”

Irving frowned. “You sure, boy? I know how much the university means to you… And you could sell the ranch if you wanted to. It’s yours now.” With Ichabod helping, he managed another swallow of water. “You know Baltus has already expressed an interest in the place, and I know he’d give you a decent price for it.”

But Ichabod shook his head. “I don’t want to sell it, Dad. I want to run it. The herd’s looking very good this year – we should have around eight-hundred head ready for market this fall, maybe more. If beef prices hold steady, that should be enough to finally pay off the loan for the barn renovations and also the new tractor. Besides, Sleepy Hollow is the Crane legacy, Dad – you’ve always said so. I’m not going to give it to someone else. After me, it’ll go to the nieces and nephews. It’ll stay in the family.”

“Family.” Irving echoed, watching his son fondly, as some old longing hovered behind his expression. “Y’know, Ichabod, I always wished you’d give me grandkids.”

“Dad…” Ichabod smiled in bland embarrassment, and reminded, “Sissy’s given you grandchildren, Dad. And they’re great kids.”

“Sure they are,” Irving agreed, then added wistfully, “But they don’t carry the Crane name. Y’know, you could marry that little gal of Baltus’,” he suggested, eyes tired, but the ghost of a teasing smile playing on his lips. “Then you could go into business with Van Tassel – you'd keep the ranch, he’d get a hand in like he wants, and I’d get some Crane grandkids.”

“As a matter of fact,” Ichabod commented, “Abram and I were just talking about that the other day. But I’m just not… interested like that in Katrina… or anyone…”

“I know,” the elder Crane acknowledged, then mentioned perceptively, “ ‘Cause it’s really Brom himself you’ve taken a cotton to, isn’t it?”

At that, Ichabod looked up, startled into speechlessness. He didn’t know what to say. “…umm…” he began to stutter.

“It’s okay, boy,” Irving assured benignly, dismissing any concern off-hand. “Brom seems like an okay cuss, I s’pose. Your mom and I raised you to have a good head on your shoulders. You just do what feels right to you. He and that devil horse riding in the rodeo again?”

“Yes – tomorrow.”

“You goin’?”

Ichabod hesitated. “I should probably stay here with you.”

The father snuffed. “No reason to. Harriet’ll be here to keep me outta trouble. You go – and give Brom my best.” Eyelids were beginning to drift shut again. “Now, go on, boy, you’ve talked me out for now.” When Ichabod lingered, Irving chided gently, “I need to rest my eyes – damn drugs are makin’ me groggy. Go on. Your dinner’s gettin’ cold. We’ll talk more later.”

“All right,” Ichabod acceded, straightening the blankets and leaving the water where Irving could reach it. “I’ll check on you again before I go to bed.”

“Sure, son, sure…” Already the father’s voice was drifting away.

Gently Ichabod went out and closed the door. And wondered if there would indeed be another time to talk again later.

* * * * *  
 _to be continued_

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rodeo! The neighboring ranches and community gather for the opening of a weekend rodeo. Brom is taking part, while Ichabod cheers his friend on.

The rodeo was held four times a year on the Van Tassel spread, in the short single-weekend breaks between each ranch working-season. Spring calving and branding had just ended, and shortly the summer task of rotating herds to fresh pasture-land would commence.

The arena had been specially designed just for shows, with bleachers, holding pens, roping and bucking chutes and a full-electronic timing system installed. And since it was his land, Baltus Van Tassel – known by everyone around as ‘Pappy’ – always appropriated the role of announcer. It wasn’t a sanctioned professional event, but just the neighboring ranches who gathered for fun and donated some money. Half would go to prize money for each event, and the other half would be donated to local schools. The cowboys could compete in as many of the individual events as they chose, and whoever entered all four seasonal showings and garnered the highest total number of points would win the yearly title and purse. Bert Powell had earned the title last year, but for the two prior years, Abram Van Brunt – Brom Bones – had earned the year-end purse, leaving all other contestants way in the dust.

The contestants rode around the arena now, warming up their horses. The rough stock, brought in by the various ranchers, waited in holding pens. Fred Cornwall, who owned the spread down south, had the best bucking stock, both bulls and horses, and always showed up with the crowd’s favorites.

Now the bleachers were filling with friends, neighbors, relatives, and visitors, who were welcome as well. Ichabod sat several rows up, near the roping chutes where he would have a perfect view. Down in the arena, Brom, seated on Daredevil who pranced anxiously amid the other horses and riders, winked at Ichabod and waved him down to join the competition, but Ichabod just grinned and shook his head.

And true to Brom’s precognition, Katrina Van Tassel had quickly spotted Ichabod in the stands, and claimed the seat next to him – as well as his arm. A few times in the past she had earned the yearly title of Rodeo Queen, but Van Tassel always urged the other young ladies of the community to vie for the title as well, so it wouldn’t look like nepotism. This year a pretty eighteen-year-old from town had won the opportunity to join the festivities with her glitter-studded Stetson, a silver-bedecked white quarter-horse, and a lavender satin sash proclaiming her ‘Miss Grassvale Rodeo 2014’.

“Welcome, folks,” Baltus Van Tassel’s voice boomed over the PA system, as the rodeo patriarch took the center of the ring on Tornado, a spirited palomino Andalusian. “As you know, this is the second event of the year and it’s gonna be even more spectacular than March’s show. ‘Course,” – he added sotto voce – “anything’d be more spectacular than Cornwall’s Morgan sittin’ down on the job last time. Hey, Corney!” he heckled the other rancher, who occupied the center penthouse section of the stands with his family. “You call that Sergeant of yours a bucking bronc? Looked more like a sleepy-time lamb when he cost Billy Joe a ride last March. I hope you shipped him down to the dog-food factory in Porterville.”

“I will,” Cornwall called back, “if you ride him yourself today, Baltus, and can go the time!”

“Umm, on second thought…” Van Tassel playfully backed down, “I think we’ll leave all that rough-housin’ to all the young bucks here. My saddle-seat is happy right where it is. But speaking of young bucks – Ichabod Crane, where are you, boy?”

From the stands, Ichabod grinned and raised his unencumbered left arm.

“I don’t see the Crane name on the card today,” Van Tassel noted. “Your daddy’s one of the best bronc riders in the county. Now I know Irving is indisposed these days – and you know our prayers are with him. But, so why aren’t you down here with the boys, upholding the family name, instead of up there in the stands dallying with my daughter, young man?”

That earned a smattering of chuckles from the bleachers and a flush of warmth that pinked Ichabod’s ears.

“Oh, papa, he’s not dallying,” Katrina insisted, then flashed a flirty smile at her appropriated suitor, and murmured in Ichabod’s direction, “ – although I wish he would.”

Another few laughs echoed in the nearby seats.

“And honey,” Baltus called to his daughter, “you’re gonna have to let go of the young man’s arm if he’s gonna ride. You know the rules for bronc busting – one hand’s gotta be empty.”

Ichabod felt the warmth climb into his face, as he answered her father, “No ride this time, Baltus, maybe September.”

“All right, I’m holding you to that, boy.” The older man turned his attention to Abram, in the semi-circle of cowboys holding their mounts at bay. “Brom, next time I want you to hold a ride for our young Mister Crane here on Daredevil, all right?”

“I’ll do that, Pappy,” Abram agreed, crossed forearms resting on the saddle-horn, even as Ichabod shook his head and waved his free arm in vigorous refusal.

“And as for you, Brom,” Van Tassel added, “Glad to see you back again for the second time this year – since you missed out on the end of last season, when your horse rode _you_ last winter and busted your leg. Don’t you know a cowboy’s supposed to be on top of his horse, not under it?”

“Yeah, most of the time,” Abram grinned. “And I’ll be sure and save a ride on Daredevil for you too, if you’d like, Mr. Van Tassel.”

“Well, umm…actually…” Van Tassel considered, deciding that discretion was indeed the better part of valor, “I, uh, think I’ll pass on that for now.” Then turning his attention back to the stands, he pronounced, “All right, folks let’s get this show on the road. Would everyone please stand for the National Anthem.”

And then, as ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’ blared over the loudspeakers, the rodeo queen loped around the perimeter of the arena carrying the fluttering American flag alongside Van Tassel’s foreman holding the California state flag, and the crowd stood while the men in the audience removed their hats.  
  
* * * * *  
 _to be continued_

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a work in progress – I just wanted to share what I have.
> 
> During the rodeo, several cowboys are injured. Brom assures that nobody was hurt seriously – but Ichabod starts to wonder if something strange is going on because, he insists, that isn't how he saw it…

Will Culhane, a cowboy for the Crane ranch, won the bareback bronc riding with a score of 89 **.** 5 on a buckskin gelding named (rather ominously) Widowmaker. And Cornelius’ Morgan stallion, Sergeant, showed his spunk this time and regained his reputation as the rankest bronc of all by bursting out of the chute like a firecracker and twisting and bucking in a vigorous aerial display that unseated his rider, one of Brom’s hands, in 4 **.** 2 seconds – after which Bill Cornelius called down to Van Tassel, “My offer’s still open, Baltus, if you want to take a turn on Sarge yourself.”

“Thanks, Bill,” Van Tassel declined, “but I’d rather live long enough to see my grandchildren.”

After that, was the tie-down roping event, with pretty good times being racked up in the low 6’s – until one of Van Tassel’s own riders lost his grip on a little one who trotted bawling around the arena, leaving the cowboy on his rear in the dirt. While a pick-up man went after the creature, Van Tassel teased, “If a cowboy can’t even hold onto a yearling calf, what am I paying you for, Frank? And as far as the rodeo, maybe from now on you should only compete in the kiddie events. I think we can find an extra hobby-horse for you.”  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The first wreck happened during the team roping. The fourth pair to ride was Brom’s foreman, Chuck Beatty, as the header, with Brom as the heeler. As they waited for the cow to settle in the chute, Beatty practice-swung his rope half-a-dozen times while his quarter-horse pranced in the box, turning this way and that. But Brom’s Daredevil fussed even more, frustrated to be waiting there. Anxiously he snorted, lunging in the confines of the right-hand box, rearing up a few inches to express his displeasure and even running out into the arena, earning a quiet but sharp word from Brom who reined him around and

Finally when all the animals were settled and poised, Beatty gave a nod, and the gate was swung open. As the brown and white heifer charged into the arena, the horses raced close behind, Beatty’s mare flanking her on the left and Daredevil on the right. Smoothly Beatty dropped the rope over the cow’s head, catching her cleanly around the neck and one horn, then dallied the end of the rope around the saddle horn and turned her for Brom’s heel-rope. One – two – swings of Brom’s rope overhead, then easily he laid the loop for the cow’s rear legs to step through.

But then without warning, Beatty’s dally slipped, and the cow, suddenly free, jolted to the right, away from Brom’s rope. Dragging Beatty’s rope, she plunged toward his horse. Startled, the quarter-horse mare squealed and wheeled in confusion, trying desperately to get away from the out-of-control cow, but not knowing which direction to go in. In the confusion, Daredevil whipped around, snorting frantically.

Then suddenly the loose rope around the cow’s neck snapped across the front legs of Beatty’s horse, and in terror the mare reared and stumbled, throwing Beatty, then crashed blindly into Daredevil. In berserk rage, the black stallion screamed and jumped all four feet in the air, then came down off-balance nearly on top of the frightened cow, then reared and tumbled over backwards, hurling Brom from the saddle and landing on top of him.

Cries and gasps broke over the stands. At Ichabod’s side, Katrina jumped to her feet, hands clasped to her mouth.

The two horses clambered to their feet and raced around the arena, snorting wildly. Immediately the two pick-up men rode into the fray, ropes twirling to catch them and the frightened heifer, as other contestants and rodeo personnel surged into the arena to assist the two downed men.

Beatty clambered to hands and knees, dragging his left leg, “oh my lord! oh my lord!” he cried in shock, scrabbling over to his boss crumpled in the dirt. “oh my lord!” With shaking hands, he reached for the fallen man, but Abram roused and brusquely pushed him away. Blood stained one ripped sleeve.

“He’s moving, folks!” Van Tassel announced to the crowd. “Thank god for that.”

The pickup men were able to herd Beatty’s mount and the cow through the gate that led to the holding pens. But Daredevil raged like the demon he was purported to be, eyes wild and crazed, even as the pickup men circled him.

“Don’t!” Brom called from the ground. “Leave him!” Painfully he rolled to one elbow, and called sharply to the horse. “Daredevil! To me!”

At the sound of its master’s command, the horse stopped, snorted again anxiously, but then hesitantly danced closer to his downed owner, giving a couple more snorts of excitement.

“Watch out for his hooves!” someone called.

Brom was focussed on the wild horse. “Obey!” he ordered. “Daredevil, obey!”

That finally quieted the stallion, which calmed enough to stand beside the fallen man. “You can take him now,” Brom informed the pickup men. From behind they flanked the black animal, not attempting to rope it, but urging it in the direction of the holding pens. Compliantly Daredevil walked ahead of them and went out through the gate.  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The medic treats Brom’s wounds. He lets the doctor clean the deep laceration on his arm and bandage it, but then refuses any further treatment. In alarm, Katrina has jumped up from Ichabod’s side, and hurries to Abram, where he is being bandaged up. Ichabod follows her, worried about Abram as well. Katrina was hovering over Abram. He grins and plays with her – he doesn’t lie to her or anything, but he lets her fawn over him – he plays along for kicks more than Ichabod does.

Once it’s ascertained that no one is dead or mortally injured, Van Tassel urges the show to continue. He consoles Abram that it looks like he’ll be out of the rest of the competition.

But Abram announces he’s signed up for the bronc busting, and he’s not about to give up his ride – after all, he only needs one arm for that.

Van Tassel is surprised, “I’d say it looks like you already got your bronc ride in for the day. But I certainly won’t refuse a man who’s rarin’ for more punishment. I guess you’re still planning on gettin’ your title back from Bert Powell, ain’t ya?”  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Then during the bull riding, there’s a very serious accident. The rider is thrown, then the bull whirls, a hoof coming down on the man’s head. Blood – and brains? – spatter. There are gasps and cries from the stands. Someone close by to the injured man yells in horror, “omigod, his head’s stove in!” while the two clowns are hurriedly trying to get the excited bull out of the way and through the gate.

Brom jumps over the bars and is the first to get to the crumpled motionless form, hovering over him as the other cowboys and medics race up to help.

“Folks, let’s not jump to conclusions, let’s wait and see what the doc says,” Van Tassel urges, his horse dancing near. “Let’s pray for him. As most of you know, Pete’s a new dad as of last week. He and his pretty wife need your prayers right now. Please help him.”

The man is loaded onto a stretcher and carried out of the arena.

“Well, we’re sure keeping Doc Campbell busy,” Van Tassel notes. “But don’t worry, folks, the ambulance is right here, soon as the doc looks him over, they’ll get him right to County General.”

As soon as the arena is cleared, Van Tassel calls to the next cowboy who is getting into the next chute for his ride. “You sure you wanna go now, Tom? All right, he says he does, folks.”

That ride goes for the full eight seconds without any difficulties.

Then Van Tassel announces, “Doc says Pete Taylor’s looking okay. The bull didn’t crush his skull after all – the edge of the hoof just scraped the back of his head. He’s alert and talking. Just gonna have a heckuva headache, and probably a bald spot for the rest of his life, but that’s all. They’re takin’ him to the hospital as a precaution, but it looks like he’s gonna be fine. Still, wouldn’t hurt to keep sending prayers his way. And thank God for a miracle. Well, that’s all for today, folks. I promised spectacular, but I gotta admit, even I wasn’t expecting this much excitement. But all’s well that ends well, hope you all have a great summer, and we’ll see y’all back here in September.”  
* * * * *

Abram and Ichabod are talking about the rodeo, and the accidents. Ichabod can hardly believe that everything is okay – the upset with Abram’s foreman, and the disaster with Pete Taylor. Ichabod says from where he was sitting, he could see quite clearly, and it really did look like Pete had gotten his skull crushed, with his brains spattered. But Abram just says they were both lucky – and with Pete Taylor, it was just a lot of blood and dirt that people saw – not brains.

Abram urges Ichabod to compete in next year’s rodeo. “Next year, I want you with me for the team roping event. You’re a helluva roper. ‘Course, for all the other events, I’ll still whip your ass.”

“I’m assuming you mean that figuratively.”

“Mm, maybe I do, maybe I don’t.”

* * * * *

_to be continued…_


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (this chapter is just a work-in-progress)
> 
> “If you want her, go after her,” Abram suggests, after Katrina leaves.  
> ”I don’t want her,” Ichabod insists. “Not like that, I mean. I like her as a friend, but…”  
> “Hey, she’s a beautiful woman,” Abram playfully chides. “– what’s the matter with you?”  
> “Why don’t you go after her?” Ichabod counters.  
> Abram wraps his arms around Ichabod. “Mm, I got what I want – right here.”  
> “I owe you a great deal.”  
> “Yes you do. And don’t think I’m not going to collect, because I am – with interest.”

At midnight, a man in a cassock is in a room with an altar and tables. Candles and incense. A large protective pentagram is painted on the floor, in which he stands. Symbols decorate the walls. He is performing some kind of ritual. He has sensed that evil is growing in the area, and is doing a cleansing ritual. He sets wards and closes the circle.

Suddenly he hears galloping hoofbeats approaching outside. In alarm, he feels a cloud of evil approaching. And then he hears someone enter his house, then booted footsteps descend the stairs to the basement where he is. Spurs jingle lightly. Frightened, he grabs the ritual sword from the table to the east. It may be for ritual, but it does have an edge.

The door bursts open, and a horrifying demonic figure strides brusquely in to the room – a headless man in a Revolutionary War redcoat uniform, and a large broad-axe in his grip. The razor edge glows a hot gold. The form hesitates, facing him, and raises the axe. Desperately the man raises the sword to fight, stepping forward to meet his ghastly opponent. But in doing so, he accidentally steps a foot outside the pentagram. And with the circle broken, the hellish figure strides into the desecrated area, shoves a table out of the way, then callously knocks the sword out of the man’s grip with a sweep of the axe. In shock the man realizes what’s coming next. Helplessly he backs up against the altar

The axe raises and swings, slicing his head off in a shower of blood. The body slumps and falls, and the head rolls over to the altar, where it stops, eyes open in horror, smoke and steam wafting up from the severed cauterized neck..

Then, his job done, the Headless Horseman turns and goes back up the stairs, the blade dripping blood. Hoofbeats clatter down the street.  
* * * * *

The next day there’s a report of a strange beheading the next town over. Ichabod realizes the Horseman is riding again. He tells his father about it. That brings some energy back to Irving. Ichabod is devastated that he wasn’t able to prevent it – Why didn’t he sense it was going to happen?. Irving tells Ichabod to research the victim, find out what reason Moloch or the Horseman would want the man (or woman) dead, and log it in the journal. And from now on Ichabod will have to keep a watch out.

Mrs. Winters hears too, and is horrified – so much so that Ichabod asks if she knew the victim. She doesn’t, but it’s just so terrifying that it happened, and that the Horseman has appeared again.

“I thought this might happen,” Irving Crane surmises. “I’ve been expecting it, ever since you were born.” He looks at his son. “There’s a reason I named you Ichabod, you know.”

“What?” Ichabod questions, but by now, the burst of energy has faded, and the morphine takes over, and Irving falls asleep.  
* * * * *

Ichabod and Abram talk about the beheading and the fact that Horseman is riding again. Abram asks what does Ichabod plan to do about it? Ichabod isn’t sure. The victim was performing some kind of magical ritual, but for what he doesn’t know. Maybe there was mention in the paper of a certain scent (of the incense), and Ichabod has researched it, and finds out it’s for protection or repelling (banishing) demons or something.

Abram asks if Ichabod is consulting the family ‘bible’. Ichabod is, but he won’t go into detail about what’s contained in it with Abram or anyone. Only the Keeper (and the Sisters of the Radiant Light) know exactly what’s in it. Abram asks, is Ichabod going to try to confront the Horseman directly? Ichabod says yes, absolutely, as soon as he can figure out how to stop him, even if only to thwart that particular night’s ride.  
* * * * *

One evening, rain causes a flash-flood down a dry channel on the Crane land, and breaks down a fence. Several dozen cattle get loose and are caught in the maelstrom. A ranch hand of the Cranes, or maybe Abram’s, sees it and calls it in. Ichabod and his foreman and all the hands con­verge on the spot. Abram and some of his men arrive to help, as well as Van Tassel and some of his crew. Someone has brought the transport truck to carry some of the steers back to the Crane barn. Some in 4-wheelers, some on horseback. Four tractors, chains, cables, winches. Cattle are milling, struggling, some being washed away. Drenching rain is pouring down. It’s a confusion of rain and flood and men and horses and cattle. Abram also says to herd as many as they can over to his nearby pasture, don’t worry about sorting or pairing the cows and calves – they’ll do that later.

The men are lassoing all the cattle they can and trying to pull them out. Ichabod sees they really need to get the lead steer out, then hopefully most of the others will follow. He rides Gun­powder into the current, trying to rope the main steer. But in the tumult, he can’t do it, and in the pouring rain, and the crush of bodies, and the deep water and rushing current, Gunpowder loses his footing and goes under, taking Ichabod with him.

They’re drowning, and being slammed about by the water and the crush of cattle, when out of nowhere, like a guardian angel on a white horse, a hand grabs Gunpowder’s bridle and pulls the horse and Ichabod up. In a moment the image resolves into Abram on black Daredevil – obviously it was the water spray and raging white spume that created the optical illusion of the horse being white.

Abram yells at Ichabod to get out – points him toward a huge boulder, says the water’s shallower there and he can get out. Then Abram is going to go in after the lead steer. Ichabod tries to stop him, they could lose him, he could drown just as easily as Ichabod nearly did.

“If I don’t, you’ll lose your herd. Now get out to level ground and rope the ones you can.”  
* * * * *

Abram takes Ichabod to his (Abram’s) home. They’re both drenched. Ichabod is shivering, still coughing. They get out of their wet clothes, and shower all the grime and mud and muck off. Abram gives him a robe, and a blanket to wrap up in, then tosses their clothes in the wash.

“I need to get back home, look after Dad, and the injured cattle, ” Ichabod insists, still coughing.

“No, you’re staying here tonight. You just about drowned today. I’m keeping an eye on you.”

“But my dad – ”

“Mrs. Winters said she’d stay and watch your dad. Your foreman’s dealing with the cattle. I’m not letting you out of my sight tonight.”

Ichabod surrenders with a smile. “Well, you’ve been trying for months to get me out of my clothes. You finally succeeded. So, is this just a plot to keep me here?”

“No, not tonight. I want you out of your clothes all right. But not like this. Taking advantage of today’s situation isn’t what I want. Anyway, that was a fool thing to do!” Abram scolds. “We could’ve lost you.”

“But like you said, if I hadn't tried, we could’ve lost the herd,” Ichabod insists.

“You think I care more about the herd? You think your dad does?”

Ichabod wonders how many head they lost. He wonders if they lost any men. Abram says they’ll count the cattle, and look for any dead or lost ones tomorrow, and any horses lost or killed. As far as the men, he hadn't heard that any were killed, but he’ll check with his foreman, and with Crane’s, and Van Tassel’s too.

“By the way, how did you get to me?” Ichabod questions. “You must be supernatural – you should have drowned too.”

“Nothing supernatural – Daredevil is just a bigger horse than Gunpowder, and his legs are a lot longer, he’s a good swimmer, and he’s strong. So am I.”

“No,” Ichabod shakes his head. “No, with the force of those flood waters and all those rocks coming down, and the cattle, we shouldn’t have come out of that alive.”

“What, would you prefer the alternative?”

“No.”

“Well, then, don’t question it. We were lucky. We could have died. We didn’t. And maybe Daredevil is part demon, after all.”

“Well, no one but you can ride him, that’s for sure.”

Abram smiles. “Y’know, I said I’m not going to take advantage of the situation now. However, if you ever feel like expressing your gratitude sometime, I won’t turn you down…”  
* * * * *

Katrina shows up at Abram’s with a pot of chicken soup, concerned after the disaster. But her concern doesn’t prevent her from flirting a little with Abram as well. Until Ichabod comes out of the bedroom in Abram’s borrowed robe. Her attention immediately shifts from Abram to Ichabod, much to Abram’s private amusement. Ichabod is a little self-conscious to be partly undressed in front of a lady, but she’s not embarrassed at all to notice him admiringly. Abram invites her to stay and share the soup with them, and she does.

She then says she will stay at the Crane place for the night and help Mrs. Winters take care of Ichabod’s father, for which Ichabod is sincerely grateful.  
* * * * *

“If you want her, go after her,” Abram suggests, after Katrina leaves.

”I don’t want her,” Ichabod insists. “Not like that, I mean. I like her as a friend, but…”

“Hey, she’s a beautiful woman,” Abram playfully chides. “– what’s the matter with you?”

“Why don’t _you_ go after her?” Ichabod counters.

Abram wraps his arms around Ichabod. “Mm, I got what I want – right here.”

“I owe you a great deal.”

“Yes you do. And don’t think I’m not going to collect, because I am – with interest.”  
* * * * *

Ichabod comes by Abram’s place a few days later, says he wants to express his appreciation and thanks for Abram helping through the disaster. Abram accepts.

But Ichabod insists, no, he wants to _express_ his appreciation…

And Abram takes him up on it…  
* * * * *

Ichabod is on his back, legs up on Abram’s shoulders as Abram plows him deep, until they both come in blinding spectacular orgasms.

Then as they’re both taking a break, with Abram still inside Ichabod, Ichabod grins. “What are you waiting for – the pick-up men to come get you off?”

“No way,” Abram insists, bracing himself over Ichabod once again. “No one’s ending this ride until I’m done – and I’m not nearly done yet.” And he goes back to work with renewed vigor until they both come again in blazing ecstasy.  
* * * * *

“So that’s what it’s like,” Ichabod surmises, when they’re finally both exhausted.

“What?” Abram questions in fatigue.

“I’ve never done this before.”

“ – had sex with a man?”

“Had sex at all. I am – I was – a virgin.”

“You? Pretty as you are, I find that hard to believe.”

“It’s true,” Ichabod avers. “And what about you, Abram? You must have had plenty of experience – just seeing the way the ladies here act around you, throw themselves at you.”

“Well, they can look, but they can’t touch. I was just as much a virgin as you.”

“No, that I don’t believe. I’ve been figuring you probably had a different lover every night.”

“Nope. Maybe I’ve just been waiting for you for a long time.”

Ichabod grins. “You’ve only known me since you bought this place next to ours three years ago.”

“Known you just a few years; wanted you for a long time.”

“Now you’re speaking in riddles.”

“No riddle. I’ve known for a long time what I was waiting for.”

“Oh god, I need this,” Ichabod murmurs, still enveloped in ecstasy. “I never knew how much I would need this.”

“And you don’t know how long I’ve wanted to hear you to say that,” Abram murmurs into Ichabod’s hair. “And now, remember that you said it, because I’m gonna hold you to it.” And then he wonders teasingly, “Y’know, Van Tassel helped save your cattle from the flash flood too. So, uh, are you gonna show your appreciation to him the same way?”

“Umm… No. Totally, no,” Ichabod pronounces definitely.

“Good,” Abram affirms, planting a series of kisses along the side of Ichabod’s face and down his throat, and ending up back on Ichabod’s lips. “Because I would be extremely jealous if you did.”

Ichabod grins. “Jealous? Already?” he questions playfully, even as Abram’s lips press against his.

“Absolutely,” Abram asserts, barely breaking the rhythm of his kissing.

And they go into Round 3.

* * * * *

They make love often. Either Ichabod spends the night at Abram’s, or Abram is over at Ichabod’s house almost every night. They’re not making a show of it (like holding hands in front of the crews), but neither are they sneaking around, trying to hide it. Ichabod is falling hard for Abram, feeling more and more serious about the relationship. He mentions that it’s almost like it was fore-ordained – the fact that neither of them had any previous interest in anyone else – “not to sound mushy or anything… but it’s like we knew we were meant for each other.” Abram insists, “oh, I _know_ we were meant for each other.”

* * * * *

_to be continued..._


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (the rest of this story is just a work-in-progress)
> 
> “Dad!” Ichabod rushes to his father’s death-bed, barely glancing in Abram’s direction standing in the room, then kneels and takes his dying father’s hand.  
> Irving Crane looks directly at his son, trying to say something very important in this last moment. “Death… is here.”  
> “Yes, Dad,” Ichabod assures, while Mrs. Winters gasps, drawing her apron to her mouth, her gaze shifting from Irving to Ichabod, to Abram. Abram’s gaze catches her for just an instant.

Abram goes to the dying elder Crane, lying in bed, near death..

Irving Crane eyes the visitor, a bit of sharpness still there, and suddenly announces, “You!…” he manages with his last bit of breath. “I… know who… you are…”

A little smile tugs the corner of Abram’s lips. “So – you can finally see me for real. Well, that’s not surprising – I can see that you’re right at the veil now. You only have a few more minutes here in this world. Yes, I’ve been your neighbor – right next door – for the past three years. And even before that, I was close by, but you never knew. Actually I’ve been close to the Crane family all along, for the past two-and-a-half centuries. Some saw me, some didn’t. A number of them faced me and fought me. Through the centuries, a few managed to stop me – a few others, I took their heads. I must admit, though, you’ve all done an excellent job of hiding my head from me, because even after all this time, I still haven’t managed to find it. I commend the Crane family – even those I slew – you’ve all been worthy opponents. And I’m sure you’ll continue to be.”

The old man’s rheumy eyes quiver, but still pierce the visitor, no fear showing, and he extends a shaking arm. “So, demon… have you come… for my head?...”

Abram takes his hand. “No, I’m not here for your head. You’re already dead, old man. No, it’s the other Death – the Reaper – who comes for you. I’m simply here to have this little farewell chat with you, and wish you well on your journey.”

“My son… Ichabod’s… head…”

“No, I won’t be taking his head either. You and I both know who he truly is.”

“He… took your head…”

“Yes. And I have been waiting centuries for his soul to be reborn. That’s why I never killed you – you had to be there to raise him to adulthood, and finally pass on the cloak of the Keeper to him. I’m sure in your lore, the Cranes are aware that when he and I originally slew each other, our blood merged. However what you may not understand is that because we share blood, neither is able to kill the other now. So, I will admit, we are at a stalemate as long as he lives. But that’s all right, because I have wanted him for a very long time.”

“… you cannot… have him…”

“I cannot _help_ but have him, old man. But he has me as well. We are trapped together. However, if it gives you any consolation, know that – ironically – he is entirely safe – actually, safer than ever – under my auspices. I will allow no human to harm him, and certainly no demon would dare approach.”

The bedroom door opens, and the housekeeper looks in. “Oh, excuse me, I didn’t realize you were here, Mr. Van Brunt. I didn’t hear you come in. I was just looking in on Mr. Crane.”

“That’s all right, Mrs. Winters,” Abram assures, but then adds pointedly, “Where is Ichabod now? I think you should let him know to come back right away.”

“Oh, dear.” She realizes what he’s not saying. “He’s out in the barn. I’ll call him in right now.”

“Yes, please.”

She hurries out to the phone in the kitchen.

A little more firmly Abram holds the father’s hand, and a bit of energy flows into the man, as Abram promises, “Don’t worry, old man, you’ll last a few moments longer, enough to see your son.” He smiles a little, a tiny glint of humor in his eyes. “We’ll make the Reaper wait a few more seconds.”

Gaze still sharply focussed on the visitor, Crane grips back with a bit more strength.

Ichabod’s bootsteps stride into the house and down the hardwood floor. “Dad!” He rushes into the room, barely glances in Abram’s direction, then hurries to other side of the bed, kneels and takes his father’s other hand. “It’s all right, Dad,” he murmurs, voice trembling a bit.

Mrs. Winters stands at the foot of the bed.

Irving Crane looks directly at his son, trying to say something very important in this last moment. “Death… is here.”

“Yes, Dad,” Ichabod assures, while Mrs. Winters gasps, drawing her apron to her mouth, her gaze shifting from Irving to Ichabod, to Abram. Abram’s gaze catches her for just an instant.

Crane’s focus shifts to Abram, as he repeats more insistently, _“Death…_ is … _here!”_

“Yes, Dad, it’s all right,” Ichabod repeats, tears welling. “I love you, Dad.”

The elder Crane looks at his son, then his eyes close and he breathes his last.

A sob breaks from Ichabod lips, and he buries his face against his father’s hand.

Gently Abram releases the hand he was clasping, then goes to the sobbing Mrs. Winters, and assists her to the bedside chair.

* * * * *

Ichabod returns home after the funeral with Mrs. Winters. He’s wearing a black broadcloth suit. He goes into the study, and sits at the desk, elbows on the desktop, resting his forehead in his hands, still in shock. Now he’s alone.

And the Horseman is riding again.

Mrs. Winters appears in the doorway, in her black dress, unpinning her pillbox hat. “I’ve put some tea on. Visitors will probably be arriving soon. Do you need anything right now, hon?”

Still half-dazed, Ichabod looks up, “Umm… no… thank you…   If you could please treat the visitors for awhile, please? I’ll come out in a bit.”

“Of course, dear.” And she leaves him alone.

In a little while, Baltus and Katrina arrive, as well as Abram, Cornwall, and other neighbors and the pastor.

* * * * *

And then, some time later, at dawn one morning, as Ichabod is nearing Abram’s place, he sees the Horseman ride toward Abram’s barn. The Horseman doesn’t see him.

Ichabod is afraid that the Horseman is going to kill Abram. But even as he is caught between attacking the Horseman, or yelling for Abram, or planning to sneak quietly to the ranch-house and alert Abram, he sees the Horseman and the horse go through a bizarre transformation.

The Horseman swings out of the saddle, and as he does so, his image and the horse’s shimmer then re-form. The horse shifts from white to black, and the Headless Horseman changes into… Abram – very much with a head. Even the horse’s – Daredevil’s – tack changes from early military to Western, and the Horseman’s redcoat uniform changes into Abram’s shirt and jeans.

Ichabod is nearly paralyzed with shock. He can only stare in stunned horror, as Abram takes the horse’s saddle off and, in normal routine, wipes down the sweaty animal. Perhaps Abram looks up, looks around, but doesn’t see Ichabod, or doesn’t show any acknowledgement that he does. Maybe he’s talking quietly to the horse, then leads the animal into the barn.

Finally, the paralysis broken, Ichabod hurries back to his own house, utterly devastated.

* * * * *

Ichabod is in his study, sitting at the desk, just sitting there, stunned, numb. A thousand thoughts swirl through his mind. He has betrayed everything his family has worked for, for the past two-and-a-half centuries. It was his job, his sacred purpose to guard against the Horseman, to stand vanguard against the forces of evil. And yet, instead, he happily, naïvely, invited the Horseman into his home, into his life… into his heart.

After awhile, he opens the desk drawer and takes out his father’s Colt **.** 45, and lays it on the desk top. He considers suicide – he isn’t worthy to bear the cloak of the Keeper. But then he realizes that simply abdicating his responsibilities just to assuage his own guilt is simply the coward’s way out. That the honorable way to atone for his grievous mistake is to live and fight harder than ever against Moloch and the Horseman. He will peruse the family journal thoroughly to see if there’s any mention of the Horseman appearing to people like this, and anything at all as to how to fight him.

The sound of the door opening makes him jump, as though the Horseman has entered, until he hears Mrs. Winters’ greeting. Quickly he shoves the gun under something. She sticks her head in the study to say hi. He forces himself to reply something bland. He doesn’t want to say anything about Abram or the Horseman until he has planned some kind of attack. She senses something isn’t quite right, but he assures her he just didn’t sleep well, so he’s a bit out of sorts this morning.

She goes out to start working.

And once he’s alone again, he opens the safe and removes the journal. He opens it on the desk, skims through the pages looking for anything he can use.

Abram’s voice speaks up from the doorway, “Did you find what you’re looking for?”

Ichabod’s head snaps up. The blond rancher is slouched against the door jamb, arms folded. “So, that’s the famous ‘Crane family bible’,” he notes. Standing in the doorway like that, he is blocking Ichabod’s only exit from the room.

Ichabod is furious, taken by surprise. “You!” he snarls, literally trembling with anger and shock and fury.

Abram just shrugs mildly. “Yeah, it’s me.”

“Monster! My ‘friend',” Ichabod sneers coldly. Reactively he reaches once more for the revolver, points it at Abram.

“Now, what do you plan to do with that?” Abram drawls, “– murder your neighbor? That would take some explaining to the authorities. Then you’d end up going to prison for life. Or Death Row.”

Still Ichabod holds the gun on him. “I don’t care,” Ichabod retorts. “My life is forfeit, as long as I kill you.”

Casually Abram strolls into the room. “Well, you can’t kill me,” he reminds bluntly. “All you’ll do is put holes in my shirt. And I’d rather you didn’t do that – I like this shirt. And besides, if you fire that thing in the house, you’ll give poor Mrs. Winters apoplexy. She’s a nice lady, I’d hate to have that happen to her. C’mon,” he urges again. “Surely somebody must have written in that book of yours that bullets can’t kill me.”

“My ancestor shot you.”

“Yeah, he knocked me off my horse. But, as you know the story very well, that didn’t stop me.”

“No, but his cutting off your head did.”

“Yeah, that’s been a sore point with me for some time.”

"You appear to have your head now - how is that?"

"Unfortunately it's not the real thing.  It's just a solid image I can create.  Makes me... less conspicuous." A little humorous twinkle sparks in blue eyes. "I'm not human.  I can do things like that."

Ichabod realizes he should have heard Abram enter, should have heard Abram's boots on the hardwood floor, but he hadn't. Nor had he heard the front door open. “And how did you get in here?”

Abram gives a casual shrug. “I walked in the front door. How else? I rang the bell, no one answered, so I let myself in.”

“I didn’t hear you enter.”

“Well I’ve been told I have a real light footstep. C’mon now, put the gun down. We can have a little chat.”

Finally, knowing that Abram is right, Ichabod returns the gun to the desk drawer.

“You won’t find any answers in that book of yours.”

“How do you know?”

‘Because if any of your ancestors had known how to destroy me, they would have, and I wouldn’t be here now. You’re wasting your time. You can’t defeat me. I’m stronger than you, and I can’t be destroyed. So why don’t you just surrender to the inevitable? Give up your family’s useless quest.”

“No. Never.”

Sitting on a chair arm, and hitching a leg over, Abram clasped his hands in his lap and drawled, “Well then, if you don’t like that, you better hope that book of yours has some answers in it for you.”

Bitterly, leaning both hands on the desk, head down, Ichabod hissed, “You _can_ be stopped!”

A casual shrug. “Stopped – temporarily – yes. Destroyed permanently, no.”

“Get out!” Ichabod didn’t even raise his head to look at the uninvited guest. “And don’t _ever_ set foot in this house again. You are not welcome!”

“You’ll change your mind,” Abram assured. “In the meantime, you’re still welcome at my place… and in my bed.”

“We will _never_ sleep together again!”

“Yes we will.”

“What - do you intend to rape me? Because I revoke my consent right now!”

“No, not rape.” Compliantly Abram stood and started for the door, only to turn back for one last word. “You’ll come to me. I guarantee it.”

* * * * *

 _to be continued_ …


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (the rest of this is just raw scraps, scenes and dialogue which I’ll develop later – I must admit, I do love all the taut snappy dialogue between Ichabod & Abram/Death!)
> 
> “Now, are you going to walk out with me,” Abram drawled casually, “or am I going to have to sling you over my shoulder and take you out myself?”  
> “I’m not going anywhere with you!” Ichabod retorted.  
> “I’m ten times as strong as you – a hundred. I can do it, easily, if you refuse. But do you really want all your people to see you being carried out over my shoulder, rump in the air? Believe me, I will do it.” Abram grinned. “ – and I’ll like it, too.”  
> “I’ll walk,” Ichabod snapped, glumly.

“We _are_ involved in a serious long-term relationship,” Abram reminded him. “We are blood-bound forever.”

Ichabod glowered. “Vile filth!”

“But y’know, this relationship isn’t getting off to a very good start, if you keep insulting me with every other word out of your mouth.”

“Blood-bound? What’s that supposed to mean?” Ichabod snapped. “We’re not linked. I’m not the Ichabod who took your head! I’m not my ancestor,” he insisted. “Just because I may look a little bit like him…”

“You look exactly as you once did. But it’s more than that. It’s your soul I recognize. I come from Hell, I come from the realm of souls. I can see a soul as easily as you see flesh-and-blood. And even if you didn’t look the same, I could never mistake you. When we took each other’s life, when we fell together, our blood mingled.”

“Yes, I’ve heard,” Ichabod acknowledged. “That is part of the legend.”

“Neither of us intended it,” the Horseman continued, “but once it happened, it bound us. We are linked for all eternity. I have waited through generations of Cranes for you to be reborn.” He stepped closer to Ichabod, and again his fingertips caressed the scar on Ichabod’s chest, as he pronounced, “That is the mortal wound I gave you.”

– and again the electric pain burned a searing path through Ichabod’s flesh, drawing a sharp hiss between Ichabod’s teeth, only to skitter down through his solar plexus once more and seize his genitals with a sharp tingle. “No!” Ichabod insisted, trying uselessly to overcome his traitorous flesh. “I told you, I fell on a scythe when I was a child.”

“Then explain why my touch upon the scar – and my touch alone – causes you such pain…” Abram – Death – glanced down at the sudden tenting of Ichabod’s jeans, and chuckled. “… and such pleasure as well…”

“Monster!” Ichabod swore again. “You foul… _thing!_ You betrayed me! I cared about my friend Abram! I was even considering a serious long-term relationship with you… But you used me! you tricked me! You perverted my feelings into something shameful… “

Abram just shrugged casually. “Yeah, well, that’s not exactly how it goes – but you can look at it that way if you want to.” He turned toward the door. “At any rate, I’m driving us back to my place so we can finish this conversation, then we’re going back to bed.”

“No. If you think I’m going to bed with you ever again, you’re the one who’s crazy.”

“And you don’t understand anything. Now, are you going to walk out with me, or am I going to have to sling you over my shoulder and take you out myself?”

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” Ichabod retorted.

“I’m ten times as strong as you – a hundred. I can do it, easily, if you refuse. But do you really want all your people to see you being carried out over my shoulder, rump in the air? Believe me, I will do it.” Abram grins. “ – and I’ll like it, too.”

“I’ll walk,” Ichabod snapped.

As they walk out, Ichabod stalking out and Abram ambling, the housekeeper, Mrs. Winters sees them and is a little concerned. She’s heard the raised voices, sees Abram’s bruised face, and asks if anything is wrong. Abram assures her nothing’s wrong – he says lightly that he got the bruises because earlier that day he had gotten into an argument with the wrong end of Daredevil – and the horse won.

“Well, that Daredevil of yours sure seems to be a demon horse,” she replies, unaware of the truth of her words. And Abram gives some innocuous response.

Ichabod informs her that he and Abram are going over to the Van Brunt place for awhile, but he pointedly says that he’ll be back in time for dinner. Abram casually amusedly corrects, no, he’ll be back for breakfast tomorrow – well, no, not breakfast either, but definitely by lunchtime. “Don’t worry,” he assures, “I’m not kidnapping your employer.” Still she can tell that Ichabod is upset, and asks if there’s anything she should do (like call the cops, she doesn’t actually come out and say, but they all understand). Ichabod reassures her, no, everything is fine, and reiterates what Abram said, that he’ll be back tomorrow in time for lunch – unspoken that if he’s not, then she better call the cops.

They get into Abram’s truck parked in front. Ichabod asks, “So where are you really taking me? Hell? Which level? The first? second? tenth?”

Abram puts the truck into gear and starts down the gravel road. “My lord Moloch is lord of the seventh level. But I’m not taking you there. And anyway, you can’t get to Hell in a pick-up truck.” He grins a little at Ichabod, like he’s just made a joke. “Y’know, that’d make a pretty good country-western song, don'cha think? Anyway, I’m taking you to my place, like I said. And you never considered that Hell – in fact as I recall, when we were in bed, you pretty much considered it just the opposite.”

Ichabod’s eyes flash angrily. “For which I’m sure you’ve had many a good laugh.”

“No,” Abram refutes levelly, “I haven’t. I’ve told you, there’s a lot you’re not understanding about the two of us, so I’m going to make sure that you do.”

“How? Are you going to drop the façade and be your real self in bed with me? Am I going to be screwed by a headless monstrosity tonight?”

“Well, actually you have been all along,” Abram reminds him bluntly. “You just haven’t seen it. But if that’s what you’d like, I can certainly oblige you.”

“No.”

“You know, you could solve most of these difficulties by just giving me my head back.”

Ichabod glowers at him, and snaps, “If you think I – or any Crane – would ever do that, then there’s a whole lot _you’re_ not understanding, demon.”  
* * * * *

“You have my head, and you have my blood. You’ve trapped me. Why couldn’t you have just died when I killed you, instead of striking back at me and causing all this trouble?”  
* * * * *

“You once mentioned that the Horseman doesn’t appear with each generation of the Crane family. Actually I do. I don’t always have a purpose to ride each generation, but I have always been close to each of the Keepers, just as I have been with you.”

“Do we Cranes present such a threat to your devil lord?”

“You do. My duty is to stand between you and my lord Moloch. And to find my head which your ancestor took, and your family has kept hidden all these centuries.”  
* * * * *

“Perhaps you would like to know that most of your relations have died peacefully in bed. I have taken the lives of only three of your ancestors – your great-uncle, your great-great aunt. And of course, your namesake, who took my head.”  
* * * * *

(in Ichabod’s study)

Blue eyes pierced him, lips twitched in a taunting little smile, and a voice challenged lightly, “You can’t hurt me. You want me. You want me as much as I want you.”

And the resonance of that voice vibrated deep within Ichabod’s groin, and the cold heat of the blue fire burned into his own eyes. And the taunting quiet statement again: “You want me. Surrender to it.”

And the taunt triggered an explosion of red blaze behind Ichabod’s eyes, the smile of his tormentor raked a white hot blaze across his soul. And almost of its own volition, his open palm swung up, exploded across the other man’s smiling face, as a punctuating “NO!” burst from his lips.

Abram’s head rocked back as a grunt escaped his lips.

Blaze consumed Ichabod, flames writhed in glimmering eyes, and his hand caught a savage backhand across Abram’s other cheek. “No! No – no – no!” – each outburst punctuated by another searing crack across unprotected cheeks, back and forth.

With each blow, Abram gasped, head snapping back. Harder, harder. Beneath the blazing onslaught, pale cheeks flushed pink, pink bloomed to red. Hands hung loosely at his sides, offering no protection.

But Ichabod would not be thwarted. Free hand clutching a fistful of blond hair right down to the scalp wrenched the demon’s head up to meet another screaming hot slap right across the mouth.

“Damn you!” he yelled. “Damn you! Damn you!” trying to match blow for blow for every false intimacy that had lured him and lied to him.

Abram took each blow, grunting and gasping as his breath burst from his swollen lips. But not one plea crossed that barrier.

And when Ichabod finally let up, arm-weary and panting to re-capture his own pounding breath, those bloody swollen lips could still manage a little twist. And pale eyes wet with pain-tears could still flicker with amused challenge. “Good. Have you gotten it out of your system now?”

Ichabod’s eyes flared in fury. “Damn you!” he reiterated, still gripping the blond strands to hold the face within inches of his own. Radiating heat from sweat-slick faces wafted over both of them.

And still those blue eyes challenged, wet and blue, so blue. Ichabod found himself drift­ing, drowning in their watery depths. Gods, he could not pull himself away. The gaze pulled him in and bound him; he was being ensorcelled and he knew it, but he could not look away, _would_ not look away. Something gripped his chest, a fist squeezed his heart, his lungs, he couldn’t breathe. Of its own accord, a tiny moan issued from his throat. And he knew what he was going to do next, knew and couldn’t prevent himself, not one bit.

Then his face closed the distance between them, and his mouth covered the blood-swollen one beneath. To stop the little taunts, the little pricks, he told himself, but it wasn’t the truth. The reality was, he had no will of his own any longer. Kisses demanded, taken, forced. Another helpless moan, mingling with the chuckles of the other man, and who was really in charge now?

Willingly, all too easily, Abram’s lips parted, inviting, coaxing. And Ichabod’s tongue thrust in, violating as Abram had violated him not so long ago. And yet, even in this, the blond mastered, for Ichabod was as much under the man’s power now as when their situations had been reversed. Breaths mingled, auras intertwined, tongues slid, caressed, entwined. He could feel Abram’s tongue intrude into his mouth, and willingly he opened wider, sealed their lips as the wet flesh deep-throated him once again. Ichabod could only groan, and take their coitus, their mingled saliva, binding them as surely as any sexual conjoining would have.

And only then did the world finally solidify around them once again, and Ichabod found enough strength to break the intercourse. But not quickly enough to escape a final flick of magical tongue against his lips.

Abruptly Ichabod jerked back, breaking contact. He gulped for air, like a drowning man pulled to safety barely in time.

“What happened?” he gasped, when he could finally form his thoughts into words again.

“Don’t you know?” the blond challenged with a smile, eyes still possessing.

“What did you do to me?”

“I did nothing to you. Don’t you understand? We are already locked toge­ther for all eternity. We are one. I am you, and you are I. Neither of us can escape our fate.”

“That’s disgusting! I hate you!”

“I’m sure you do. But that’s irrelevant. Neither of us has a choice. And by the way,” Abram allowed, fingers touching, testing, bloody lips, “you’ll be satisfied to know that slapping-around you gave me really did hurt.”

“Even though you say your head is just an illusion and not actually real?”

“It’s real enough to feel pain – and the kisses. At any rate, now it’s time for a little chat – a little clearing of the air.”

Leaning both arms on the desk, gaze downward, Ichabod is breathless, partly from exertion, and partly from fury. “We do _not_ need to ‘chat’!” he snaps.

“Yeah, we do,” Abram drawls, taking a handkerchief from his hip pocket to wipe his lips. “Otherwise there’s going to be bad blood between us – hurt feelings.”

At that, Ichabod looks up at the man in angry disbelief. “Hurt feelings?” he echoes. “You’ve murdered people throughout the centuries, you’ve even admitted to killing members of my own family! You tricked me into your bed. You’re a demon from Hell!”

Abram just shrugs. “Yes, I am.”

Wet eyes glower at the figure. “You’re the Horseman. My family’s enemy.”

“Yes. And your family is my lord Moloch’s enemy. That makes us even.”

“Even?! How many people have you killed? How many have you tricked into your bed?

“Killed? Do you want an exact figure? Since I was created millennia ago, and including on the battlefield, 11,972.   During the Revolutionary War alone, before you stopped me by taking my head, I killed a hundred-and-forty-eight. But tricking into bed? – none, not even you. I told you the truth, I never had anyone in bed before you, and you and I…”

“Didn’t trick me?  You just neglected to mention that you and I are mortal enemies."

"Yeah, well, until it was time for me to ride again, I didn’t see any reason to complicate the situation between us.”

"I had feelings for my friend Abram. Who is he? Was there ever a real Abram that I cared about? – who seemed to care for me? Did you appropriate a man’s body?”

“No. The real Abram is the one you see before you now. It’s always been me.”

“Are you flesh and blood?”

“Yes – except for my head. You still have my head.” Glancing around, glancing out the window toward the ranch’s outbuildings where men were working, Abram decided, “You know, we probably should go back to my place to continue this conversation.”

“Why – are you worried someone might figure out who you really are?”

“No. But you try convincing people that I’m a headless demon who rides around the countryside at midnight, wearing an old Revolutionary War uniform and chopping people’s heads off, and I guarantee, you’re the one they’re gonna cart away – not me.   Especially since everyone can see I have a head, and all the folks around here have known me for the past three years as a friendly helpful neighbor, and everyone likes me.”

“Such a convenient disguise,” Ichabod sneers.

“The little old couple down the road – the Thompsons – I even drive them to church Sundays whenever their son isn’t available. You think they’d believe I’m a demon?”

At that Ichabod looks askance. “You can enter a church?”

“Of course. And I can touch a cross and hold a Bible, no problem. Now, I’ll admit, holy water burns, but I just don’t take a bath in it, so...” He tosses it off with another little shrug.

Disgust turns the corners of Ichabod’s lips. “You desecrate a church with your presence, hell-spawn?”

But Abram merely counters. “Don’t act so righteous – do you know how many of my lord Moloch’s followers have been harassed and tortured and killed by your so-called ‘love-your-enemy’ Christians?”

“You murder innocent humans indiscriminately.”

“On the contrary, it is not indiscriminate at all. I do as my lord Moloch commands. I am his soldier – the final defense before my lord. I kill those who threaten him. If I were here to wipe out the entire human race, I would simply go door to door and take every head. Obviously I haven’t done that. And if it’s numbers that concern you, of all my Horsemen brethren, I am by far the least rapacious. Pestilence, War, and Famine have killed millions of your ‘innocent humans’.”

“You kill indiscriminately in war. You admitted that.”

“No. I participated in the Revolutionary War only because my orders were to find and kill you. But as long I was there, yes, I assisted my brother by adding to the body-count."

* * * * *

 _to be continued_ …


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (the rest of this story is just raw scraps, scenes and dialogue which I’ll develop later.)
> 
> Suddenly Abram’s mouth came down upon Ichabod’s; and his grip on Ichabod’s face forced their lips for a long hard kiss, even as his tongue rammed into Ichabod’s mouth in casual violation, and his hot breath exhaled down Ichabod’s throat.  
> Helplessly Ichabod struggled, but couldn’t break the brutal kiss.  
> Until finally Abram pulled back, but no more than a bare inch, his lips still caressing feather- light against the corner of Ichabod's mouth. “For years I’ve wanted to do that, even as I’ve waited for you all these centuries.”

Abruptly Abram shoved Ichabod up against the barn wall, one hand on his shoulder pressing Ichabod back against the wood planks; the other roughly clutching Ichabod’s jaw to control his head, And stepping in close to pin him body-to-body, Abram pressed his thigh between Ichabod's legs, surging a trembling thrill through Ichabod’s swelling sensitive cock and balls.

With a moan, Ichabod could only go limp in his captor’s grip.

Abram’s warm breath wisped over his face, before suddenly his mouth came down upon Ichabod’s; and his grip on Ichabod’s face forced their lips for a long hard kiss, even as his tongue rammed into Ichabod’s mouth in casual violation, and his hot breath exhaled down Ichabod’s throat.

Helplessly Ichabod struggled, but couldn’t break the brutal kiss.

Until finally Abram pulled back, but no more than a bare inch, his lips still caressing feather- light against the corner of Ichabod's mouth. “For years I have wanted to do that, even as I have waited for you all these centuries.”  
* * * * *

Abram wants to prove to Ichabod that Ichabod can’t kill him. because they’re blood-bound. He tells Ichabod to try to kill him. Abram holds his arm out to the side, and the axe materializes in his hand, then he offers it to Ichabod. Ichabod is a little taken aback, but also suspicious. For one thing, he can’t imagine that the Horseman’s own axe could be used against him. Abram just shrugs. “Let’s find out.” “You really want me to kill you, you’ll just stand there?” “Yes.” “And if I do kill you?” “Then I’ll be the one surprised.”

Ichabod suggests it’s probably a trick, that if he strikes at Abram, Abram is planning on striking back and killing him. Abram assured him again, “no, I can’t kill you, anymore than you can kill me. But you need it proven to yourself that we really can’t kill each other. So go ahead, strike me with all your might.” And he hold out the axe, and finally Ichabod takes it. Instantly Ichabod is suddenly shocked that the axe feels like a living entity in his hand – there’s an active energy flowing through it. But more than that, it’s an evil dark energy, and suddenly Ichabod feels like he’s holding a cobra or something, and he immediately drops it. It clangs to the floor like heavy metal, but then wisps away like non-corporeal mist.

Abram admits, that was a little test as well – to see if it would respond to Ichabod, if he could feel the energy. The fact that he could, proves – even more to Abram, than to Ichabod, as if Abram needed irrefutable, incontrovertible proof, that this Ichabod is indeed the reincarnation of his ancestor – because the axe was responding to the Horseman’s blood mixed with Ichabod’s.

“Then take this.” Abram offers a military sabre from over the mantel. “And this is just plain down-to-earth solid,” he promises, “ – not a mystical weapon.”

Ichabod hesitates, but then he does, and at least he doesn’t get any energy flow off of it. He holds the point out toward Abram’s neck, but then ponders, “This isn’t your actual head, you say it’s just an image. So I doubt it would kill you if I cut it off, if that’s how you’re trying to trick me.”

“Fine, then how about running me through?” And Abram unbuttons his shirt, and pulls it open, baring his chest to the blade. “Try any way you wish. Or – ” – he offers as well – “if you want to know that it is truly me, and not just this nice image of your neighbor, then take me this way: ” And before Ichabod’s eyes, Abram’s form wavers and shifts, then re-solidifies into the Headless Horseman, holding his uniform waistcoat and blouse open, still offering his bare chest to the blade in Ichabod’s hand.

A snarl twists Ichabod’s face – this demonic monstrosity he has no compunction, no hesitancy in attacking, and he starts to attack with the blade. But suddenly he can’t, almost like he’s held back by a force-field, or more like paralysis, or equal poles of a magnet. He wants to strike with all that’s in him, but he simply can’t get his muscles to obey. Finally he realizes the truth of what Abram has been saying, and in disgust and resignation, drops his weapon arm, then tosses the sabre aside.

The Horseman releases the grip on his clothing, and morphs back into Abram, smiling knowingly at Ichabod.

Then suddenly he reaches for Ichabod, pushes him up against a wall and begins to maul him with rough kisses and caresses, just as Ichabod had done to him in the study at Ichabod's house. And Ichabod falls into it as well, as though neither of them can control it, and they have rough – but consensual – sex. Different from the kind friendly sex they were having before – this is rough physical passion and nothing more.

Afterwards, Abram notes, “Now you finally understand, my old friend, how it truly is between us.”

“I understand you’re a monster,” Ichabod snaps angrily, but without much impetus. “Why couldn’t you have just stayed dead?”

But Abram just shrugs. “Call me what names you will. You can’t change things, and neither can I.”  
* * * * *

Ichabod asks, “The men who work for you – tell me, are they your demonic minions?”

“Some are,” Abram acknowledges.

“Which ones?”

Abram smiles. “That I won’t tell you.”

“Then I’ll be suspicious of all your men from now on.”

“Don’t be. It’s none of your concern. But I will tell you that several of them were among my hands who helped save your cattle. So if you’re asking because you’d like to thank them, I’ll be sure to pass along your heartfelt appreciation.”

“Are the humans who work for you in danger of being murdered by the demons?”

“Well, now, don’t you think, if a lot of my hands suddenly turned up dead, that would look pretty suspicious to the sheriff?”

“Then you could just vanish – can’t you just wisp away like your axe did?”

“It doesn’t work that way. For one thing, I’m a solid entity who can’t just wisp away. And for another, my duty for the past 250 years, has been to stick with the Crane family. So, I’m not going anywhere.”

“Has no one ever stopped you before?”

“Yes, a few. Some have even taken my head before you did.”

“Then why are you fixated on us Cranes?”

“Because always before, I was able to retrieve my head shortly after my lord Moloch raised me again. You Cranes, however, have caused me quite a bit of difficulty. This is the first time that generations of a family have carried a tradition to oppose me and my lord Moloch. And I will congratulate you all – you’ve done quite a thorough job of hiding my head from me. Though when I do finally find it, I guarantee you will be the first to know.”  
* * * * *

“Answer me something else, demon. Why do you still appear in your Revolutionary War uniform? Can’t you update your appearance? And you say you’ve been around for thousands of years – how did you dress before the Revolution?”

“I would dress as the people of the time dressed, just as you see me now. So no one knew I walked among them. As to why I can no longer change, you should be able to surmise that.”

“Because you lost your head while in that appearance.”

“Yes. And until I retrieve it, I’ll be stuck in that old form. Right now, I can create a new image, such as your friend Abram, but I can’t completely become that form until I am whole once more.”  
* * * * *

“Get out of here!” Ichabod demands, standing over his desk, hands planted on the desk-top, over the antique journal. “I revoke my invitation, demon!”

But Abram just strolls closer, and questions, “What, is that supposed to make me vanish in a swirling mist, or something? You learn that from the movies? What else does Hollywood say – that I’m supposed to have horns and a tail? Sorry – no horns, no tail, no cloven hooves.”

“Get out!” Ichabod hisses again.

“Don’t you get it? We’re blood-linked, I can’t get out.” Abram reaches for the front of Ichabod’s shirt, as though to expose the thick savage scar on the left side of Ichabod’s chest again.

But Ichabod just knocks his hand away. “And stop with that… drivel… that I’m the original Ichabod who took your head, and whom you killed with a slash to my chest. I told you. I got that wound when I was six years old and playing in the hayloft, and I fell off onto a scythe blade, and nearly died. I remember the accident! It has nothing to do with the Horseman. I certainly never faced you with a sword!”

Casually Abram gestures at the old book on the desk. “Look it up in your Horseman bible there,” he suggests. “I can guarantee your father recorded it in there. Go ahead. I promise I won’t peek.”

Grudgingly Ichabod opens the journal, flipping through to the entries until he gets to 1988. And stops short, staring at the desk-top.

Abram watches him. “Something you want to share?” he suggests.

Still staring blankly into the desk-top, Ichabod announces, “It says that I received the wound on the left side of my chest. And he underlined ‘left side’. He also noted that mingled with the red blood was dark blood, almost black.”

“Mm,” Abram comments wryly, “well, _that’s_ unusual, don’t you think?”   
* * * * *

“Look, you’ve got a good business here, a nice spread. I could do a lot to help you. We could go into business together, merge our holdings.”

“Make a deal with the Devil? I don't think so.”

“We’re way beyond ‘deals’, my friend,” Abram reminds him. “ – we’re blood-bonded. We are joined whether we like it or not. Neither of us can get out of it. I’m as trapped as you are. I can’t kill you, and you can’t kill me. So we may as well accept it and work together.”  
* * * * *

Ichabod wakes up one night in Abram’s bed, and finds himself alone. Abram could just be in the bathroom, but Ichabod has the strong feeling that the Horseman has gone hunting. So he gets up, throws on his robe and puts on his boots, and goes out to barn.

Sure enough, Daredevil is missing from his stall.

Ichabod decides to wait for the Horseman to return.

Finally in the early dawn, the Horseman rides up, and Ichabod steps out. Instead of transforming back right away, the Horseman draws the horse up alongside Ichabod and they both contemplate each other. Ichabod sees that the axe is bloody, and he is coldly angry. The Horseman dismounts, and then he and the horse morph back, although Abram is still holding the axe as he strolls up to Ichabod.

“Who did you kill this time?” Ichabod questions coldly. “Whose head did you take?”

“You’ll hear it in the news, when they find the body,” Abram replies straightforwardly.

But Ichabod demands levelly, “Who was it?”

“And what do you plan to do if I told you – call the sheriff? What would you tell him? That your neighbor is the guilty party, and he’s really a headless Horseman who goes around murdering people in the night?”

“I would tell him my neighbor has a bloody axe which would match the victim’s blood.”

The axe disintegrates in Abram’s hand and wisps away as black smoke. “What axe?”’ Abram questions pointedly. “What blood?”

Then pushing past Ichabod, he draws the horse into the barn by the reins, and leads it to its stall, then proceeds to take the saddle off and care for the horse.

Ichabod follows. “How can I overlook this? All the while the sheriff is troubled by these unsolved murders – _I’m_ the one who can solve them – _I_ know who the murderer is. Because I live with the monster.”

Abram pauses to toss a glance Ichabod’s way. “Well, when you plan to go tell him, please let me know, because I sure am curious how you plan on enlightening him. It ought to be real amusing. And just what do you think he could do to me anyway? Arrest me? Throw me in jail? You think a mere human jail can hold me?”

“Don’t be so full of yourself. I will find a way to stop you. You’re going to trip up someday.”

“That’s about as threatening as a mosquito that threatens to swat _you_.” Abram confronts him. “You’re still missing the big picture. You still don’t fully comprehend who I am. My realm is so much bigger than just the human world. My existence spans realms. I have the entire 7 th level of the demon world at my command. I am second only to my lord Moloch.”

“Yes, well don’t forget – this mosquito did swat you, by taking your head,” Ichabod reminds crisply. “And other Cranes have stopped you too. And if I must continue returning to this world time and again to keep you at bay, then I shall do so, demon.”

“Then I foresee a long and fruitful relationship between us,” Abram promises.

“And why are you still killing?” Ichabod demands. “You wanted me, and you have me now. What more do you need? Or do you just like to kill indiscriminately?”

“Having you is not part of the other. And I do not kill indiscriminately. I ride at my lord Moloch’s command. And I shall continue to do so – regardless of your preferences. Anyway, you knew what I was when you married me.”

“We are _not_ married!” Ichabod glowers. “I hate you.”

“Fine, then hate me. Now I’m going back to bed, get a few more hours sleep. You can come join me, or you can stay out here the rest of the night brooding. Your choice. Oh, but if you are gonna stay out here all night, why don’t you spend it making friends with Daredevil?” And he tosses him the cloth to rub the horse down.

Ichabod throws the cloth down. “I have no intention of getting anywhere near that devil horse!”

“I promise he won’t eat you – right, Daredevil?” Abram assures, then winks at Ichabod. “He listens to me – _most_ of the time…” Then he strolls out, leaving Ichabod glaring behind him.  
* * * * *

“I don’t want you flirting with Katrina anymore. You’re leading her on.”

“Oh, you’re jealous. How sweet.”

“I’m not jealous! But she’s hoping you’ll marry her – but that would be horrible and disgusting if she found herself trapped in matrimony with a demonic monster – ”

“ – you mean, like you are?” Abram interjects.

Ichabod ignores him. “ – and especially if you were to take her to bed.”

“Well, I’m not leading her on. If you’ve noticed, she’s the one who’s been chasing both of us. So you can rest assured, I have no intention of marrying her, and I’m certainly not going to take her to bed.”

“Well, she doesn’t know that!   She has no idea she is flirting with this ghastly… non-human… thing. She would be horrified if she found out what she was really chasing after. I don’t want you to continue playing up to her.”

“Well, don’t worry – you’re the only bed-mate this ghastly non-human thing has – or wants.”

“And don’t take her head. She means no harm to you or your lord.”

“And you needn’t worry about that either. There’s nothing in her head…” he grins, “ – that my lord Moloch would want. He only concerns himself with those who might do him harm. And I am quite sure Miss Van Tassel poses no threat to anybody – except maybe the neighboring bachelors.”

“Then leave her alone. And don’t make fun of her. She’s a nice person.”

“I agree, she’s a nice person. Fine. I’ll put an end to her flirtation with us.” He grins sharply. “And I still say you’re jealous.”

“I am not!”

* * * * *

 _to be continued_ …


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (the rest of this story is just raw scraps, scenes and dialogue which I’ll develop later)
> 
> “I sure like taking you to bed.” Abram muses.  
> Ichabod glowers. “You hate me.”  
> “Sure. As much as you hate me. And I’d kill you if I could, just like you’d kill me. But we can’t. That doesn’t change the fact that I do like you in bed.”

When Abram and Ichabod next cross paths with Katrina, Abram announces, “We have good news to share with you. Ichabod and I are engaged.” To which both Ichabod and Katrina look surprised.

She thinks Abram is joking.

“No,” Abram assures her. “It’s true. Ichabod and I have been lovers for some time. So we just wanted to let you know the happy news.” And he slips an arm around Ichabod’s waist, gives him a little lovey peck on the ear.

She turns to Ichabod who is looking quite flustered and upset and practically pulling away from Abram’s arm and kiss.

“Ichabod, you don’t look well. Is it true?”

“Yes,” he mutters, trapped into having to back-up whatever Abram says, all the while gaze shooting daggers at Abram. “It’s true.”

Abram interjects, “Oh, and just ignore Ichabod’s reaction. You know he’s shy about these things. But he was eager to let you know, and in fact he specifically asked me to tell you.”

“Well, um…” She doesn’t quite know how to take the revelation.  
* * * * *

“Why did you tell her that – that we’re engaged ?!” Ichabod demands angrily.

“Well, you wanted me to stop her interference without killing her. And I did.”

“That was a crazy thing to tell her – not to mention, now she’s going to tell everyone.”

“So? Your people and my people already know we’re sleeping together, unless they’re completely unobservant that we’re spending nights together at each other’s place.”

“We are _not_ engaged!”

“No, actually we’re already long-married. And if you’d like a ring to prove it, I’ll be happy to get you one.”

“That’s all I need – a demonic ring to bind my soul.”

“Demonic ring? I still say you watch too many movies.”  
* * * * *

“I sure like taking you to bed.” Abram muses.

Ichabod glowers. “You hate me.”

“Sure. As much as you hate me. And I’d kill you if I could, just like you’d kill me. But we can’t. That doesn’t change the fact that I do like you in bed.”

“Bastard.”

“You can’t call me a bastard – I don’t have a mother _or_ a father.”

“No? Then you’re doubly a bastard.”  
* * * * *

“So tell me, is that how you win the rodeo events? You cheat with demonic trickery?”

“Nope. As long as Daredevil is black, and I’ve got a head, I’m just your good ol’ friend and neighbor, Abram Van Brunt. And anyway, I don’t need trickery to beat out the other contenders – Daredevil is the fastest, smartest cowpony around – and I’m the fastest, smartest cowboy. Although I suppose it helps that he and I have been riding together for several millennia.”

Suddenly something comes to mind. Sharply Ichabod questions: “The accidents at the rodeo – your foreman Chuck Beatty, and Pete Taylor. I _know_ they were seriously injured – I saw what happened to them. Pete’s skull _was_ crushed. You were close by, in fact you were the first one to get to Pete. So maybe their quick recoveries weren’t miracles of God after all. Maybe they were the work of the Devil. _Did you do something to them_?”

Abram shrugs. “Chuck, I didn’t have to. Pete, well, maybe I helped a little. So, what, you’ve been complaining because I’ve killed some people. Now you’re complaining because I saved a life? Make up your mind.”

“Well, you certainly didn’t do it out of the goodness of your heart, because there is no goodness in your heart, if you even have a heart. What did you get out of it? And what do you mean about Chuck? He got kicked hard enough to cause cardiac arrest. Unless…” The realization hits Ichabod. “He’s not human, is he? He’s one of your minions. He can’t die anymore than you can. Damn you.”

Abram just grins a little and gives another little careless shrug.

“And what about Pete?” Ichabod insists again. “What did you demand for giving him his life back? What was your price? His immortal soul?”

“I can’t just take a soul. No demon can. It has to be offered. Now, if Pete feels grateful enough to offer it to me, well I won’t turn him down.”

“And just how would you ask him for it?”

“We demons have our ways. But if you want to know the truth, I just did it because I felt like it at the time. The Reaper – the other Death – and I have a little feud going, we have for centuries, since we share the same... cloak, so to speak. He was coming for Pete, so I saved Pete’s life, and threw off the Reaper’s daily pick-up schedule.”

“It was just a _game_ to you?”

“Yeah – so? You humans have your games, we have ours. We live for millennia – you know how boring that gets? We need a little fun to break up the boredom. Or would you rather I take back what I did for Pete?”

“No!”

“Then _what_ are you complaining about?”  
* * * * *

Mrs. Winters asks Abram for assistance with something away from the house, out in the woods. He meets her there, but doesn’t see whatever problem she was requesting his help for.

Suddenly she pulls a 12-gauge side-by-side shotgun on him.

He’s confused and wary, questioning why she’s pulling a gun on him – the Cranes’ nice next-door neighbor.

“Yes – our nice next-door neighbor – the Horseman of Death! The Sisterhood has stopped you in the past, and now we’re stopping you again.” She lets him know the gun is filled with scatter-shot. But it isn’t just regular pellets – each little pellet has a hole drilled in it and holds a drop of holy water, and the wadding is soaked in it, so the pellets are wet on the outside as well. And the water isn’t just any water either, but water from the Hudson River where the Horseman’s coffin is. The original coven set magical wards in the water when they buried the coffin there. Plus she has included an infusion of certain magical herbs used for demonic exorcism, gathered at the first full moon after the summer solstice and imbued with magical energy during a ritual.

For the first time, Abram / the Horseman realizes he’s in trouble. This could very well stop him. In rage he lunges for her, morphing into his true form, axe raised to take her head. But then from the side, there’s another sound of a shotgun shell racking into the chamber, and that makes him hesitate just a second and turn, but long enough for Mrs. Winters and Katrina (stepping out from her hiding place), to each blast him with both barrels. One has aimed for his upper body, the other hits him in the lower body. He’s blown backwards, ends up sprawled on the ground shredded into a bloody mess, smoking from the holy water burning him. Losing control, his form wavers between the Headless Horseman and Abram.

Ichabod and the sheriff run up just in time to catch the grand finale, they see the morph between Abram and the Headless Horseman, axe in hand. (Mrs. Winters had called them to come as well.)

Mrs. Winters stands over the Horseman. “Give our regards to your Lord Moloch.”

He glowers at her, obviously in agony, voice gasping. “I will rise again someday… and I vow, the first heads I take… will be your daughters’ daughters’.”

Katrina smiles. “Then it’ll be a quick trip for you, bastard, because as soon as you show up, they’ll be waiting to send you right back to Hell.”

Meanwhile, Ichabod is stunned. He had no idea who Mrs. Winters and Katrina really were, or that they planned this. They hadn’t let him in on it, because with his link to the demon, the Horseman might have sensed it from him.

Katrina informs the sheriff, “There’s your serial killer, Sheriff. You can rest easy now – there will be no more beheadings. And it’ll be several generations before he comes back.”

The sheriff is stunned as well, but starting to say sympathetically that he feels like he has to arrest them for murder.

But even as he’s saying it, Abram’s lifeless form shifts back into the headless demon, then wisps away, axe and all, in black smoke to nothingness.

“Murder?” Mrs. Winters questions wryly. “Doesn’t the victim have to be human? Anyway, what body? what evidence? ”

“Yeah…” the sheriff has to agree. “You’re right. I sure don’t see any evidence that any crime was committed here.”  
* * * * *

Mrs. Winters is a descendant down the female line of someone in the original good coven, the Sisters of the Radiant Heart, and a member of the present day coven.

As is Katrina Van Tassel. Her ancestor’s name was Katrina as well. Ichabod realizes now that that’s why Katrina was hovering over the two of them, flirting with them – it was really to keep an eye on both of them.

The original coven members are the ones who buried the Horseman’s coffin in the Hudson River, and hid his head. All the information regarding the Horseman has been handed down to their descendants in their Book of Shadows, just as the Cranes did in their journal. Throughout the centuries, the Sisters and the Cranes have been close, and have worked together whenever the Horseman has appeared.

That’s why Mrs. Winters is the Cranes’ housekeeper. Irving Crane knew who she was. And he knew about Katrina as well. After all, the first entry in the journal would have been made by Katrina’s ancestor, noting the disposition of the body and the hiding place of the head (the hiding place may be noted in some kind of secret code), as well as a description of the confrontation between the first Ichabod and the Horseman and their killings, and the commingling of their blood.

Irving’s wife, Ichabod’s mother, was also a member of the coven, and Mrs. Winters was the midwife when Ichabod was born. They all recognized that he was the reincarnation of the original Ichabod, and as such, had a link to the Horseman. And that meant the Horseman would rise again soon.

However they all decided to keep the knowledge from Ichabod, since they didn’t know how much the Horseman might be able to glean psychically from him.

The members of the Sisterhood are able to magically disguise their spiritual ‘signatures’, otherwise Moloch and the Horseman would know who they were and would have simply disposed of all of them long ago.

Katrina’s mother was also a member of the coven (since it’s carried down through the female lineage). Baltus Van Tassel has known about his wife and daughter being witches, although Katrina doesn’t let him know about Abram – it would put him in danger since he couldn’t hide it from the Horseman.

At first they don’t know that Abram is the Horseman. They might have reason to suspect it. Although when Mr. Crane, on his deathbed, with Ichabod, Abram, and Mrs. Winters at his bedside, says, “Death is here,” Ichabod doesn’t pick up on it, thinking he’s referring to his own death approaching, but Mrs. Winters does. And then she’s got to instantly hide her reaction, so Abram doesn’t realize she knows. And that’s when she and Katrina begin planning his demise.

* * * * *

_to be continued… someday…_


End file.
